


Sins of the Father

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [10]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode 10 - Lovecraft, F/M, Gen, Vendettas, canon/original character relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is not about treating you as a child.  This is not about trusting or not trusting.  This," he steps closer and pulls her forward in the same motion, "is about making a much-needed point."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Father

**Author's Note:**

> Doing a bit of a time-skip here; this takes place post-Episode 10, "Lovecraft". Victor gets a new assignment, and Iris' past - or rather, her father's past - returns with a taste for blood.
> 
> M-rating for violence; nothing graphic, to my knowledge.

The news of Jim Gordon’s reassignment isn’t exactly secret. The Mayor is all over television and newspaper, headline to headline, making the announcement with the usual promise that it is “for the greater good of the city” and all the additional egotistical, condescending, empty, gushing adoration for Gotham and the citizens under his devoted care that one can possibly stomach, and then some. Such pretenses are perfectly disgusting, enough to make one violently ill, and this from a man who engages in all manner of uncivilized and grotesque torture as part of his occupation. He can gut a man and barely blink, but fifteen seconds of the Mayor’s voice has him regretting that he even ate that morning.

Victor has never understood the point of false pretenses and being two-faced and talking out of both sides of the mouth. There’s never any doubt as to what he’s about, from the minute he enters a room to the second he leaves. People ask why he’s there, and he tells them accordingly. None of that, “We need to have a conversation,” nonsense, because there’s little talking needed or desired, but a calm and to-the-point, without frills or fuss, “To kill you”. Nothing fancy, unless he sees something he likes. And then he opts to play with his food before getting down to the main course.

He’s rather amused at the news, actually. Jim Gordon, unsung hero of Gotham, reassigned to Arkham Asylum as a glorified babysitter for every dreg of the system who has been unlucky enough to end up on the other side of iron gates and stone walls. From one sorry pit of existence to another; he’s sure Gordon is positively thrilled.

Don Falcone summons him for a private meeting less than a day after the news is broadcast across the city, and from the time he walks into the study, Victor can tell this is indeed a very serious matter. The mafia don isn’t relaxed with a glass of brandy, looking at ease and greeting his most trusted assassin with a pleasant expression. His jaw is set, his eyes stare deeply into the fire, and each breath is controlled.

“Sit down, Victor.” He says, nodding to the nearest chair. Silence follows, while the command is obeyed, and then he exhales again, sharper than before.

“Jim Gordon’s reassignment presents problems.” Don Falcone says, slowly. “The Mayor chose to act without permission, _again_ ,” the edge in his voice isn’t missed, and there’s a moment when Victor lets himself envision a few ways to carve up the pompous turkey, before the elder man continues, “but that is another matter. To be dealt with later, and by someone else.”

The last point is deliberate, intentional, and Victor frowns a bit. “Someone else?”

He won’t pretend he’s not insulted, and very much so at that. Someone else? _He_ is the first candidate for repaying all insults against the family. _He_ is the one Don Falcone seeks to hand out the appropriate and necessary punishment. _He_ gets the message across and he does it well. _Someone else_ , deal with the Mayor and his egregious overstep?

“Someone else.” Don Falcone nods, turning to fix his gaze on the younger man. “Because I have a far more important task for you, Victor.”

He’s having trouble determining what, if anything, could be more important than carving out the Mayor’s tongue and feeding it back to him. Until Don Falcone starts talking again.

“With Jim Gordon’s reassignment, he is permanently housed within the asylum walls. He is needed there, day and night, and not permitted to return to his apartment in the city.” Don Falcone looks highly agitated at the thought alone. “Which means Iris is alone.”

Victor is rendered speechless, just for a moment, hearing the words and hardly daring to believe just what…what _possibly_ might be interpreted from this statement. But fortunately he doesn’t have to make assumptions or try to solve riddles, because his employer doesn’t stop there. He keeps talking.

“Marcus made an absolute insult of his family’s name. He had enemies beyond myself, amongst the Russian mobs and every associated clan in this city, and perhaps even outside Gotham.” Falcone exhales again, tightly. “Even now that he is dead and buried, the insults have not been forgotten, and many want their fair share, their pound of flesh. They never got it from him, but there is no doubt in my mind they may seek it from Iris. She is Marcus’ blood, his heir, and far too many want her dead.”

His gaze is like iron, unwavering, unblinking. “Jim may have his occasional shortcomings, but at least he has been able to protect her. Now, she is alone in that apartment, and in the precinct. And too many of her coworkers can be bought. She is unprotected.”

Falcone breaks concentration when Liza enters, white skirts rustling lightly with her steps, and Victor has to bite down, hard, on his tongue before he says something uncouth. He now knows what is expected of him, now knows the task that truly is far more important than dealing with the mayor, but he just needs to hear it from Falcone’s lips and then it will be real. The tension is quivering within his limbs, the words were practically within his grasp, and then it’s time for tea.

Liza, gracious as always, pours Don Falcone’s tea first; they share a gaze that is held far longer than necessary, and Victor swallows back a bit of blood in order to at least thin his lips in the proper smile, for the sake of manners, when she pours him a cup as well. Another shared gaze between the elder and his lady, another delicate expression from one to the other, and then, finally, she leaves. 

Don Falcone takes a sip of his tea. Victor refuses to touch his, because it will mean more time wasted and he wants to hear the words, to be given the command now. He’s not about to waste more time by taking a drink of a beverage he didn’t even want in the first place.

“Iris is the last of my family.” Falcone finally continues, the obligatory stating of the obvious preceding his actual orders. “She is the mirror image of my beloved sister, and I’d sooner cut off my own hand than see any harm befall her. And _that_ , Victor, is your job.”

 _Finally._ He blinks and politely inquires for further instruction, which of course his employer is happy to give, for the sake of clarity and to ensure there is no room for interpretation. “You will remain at Iris’ side, day and night, at home and at work, on the streets or in her living room, and everywhere else in between. Where she goes, you will go. She is never to leave your sight.”

Falcone takes another sip, and this time Victor joins him because his mouth is bone-dry from excitement and it won’t do for his voice to crack the minute he’s allowed to speak again. “If anyone threatens her well-being, you will take care of it.” The elder continues, gaze hardened and barely blinking. “Use your judgment as to what constitutes an appropriate punishment, but if they threaten her, handle it. And if they _harm_ her…I want them erased from existence, Victor. Don’t leave as much as a trace that they ever lived and breathed.”

He would like to look at a calendar, because clearly it’s his birthday and he managed to lose track of the days. “Yes, sir.” He says, very calmly and very politely, without any hint of the excitement bubbling and frothing inside his chest. He is obliged to release his cup, because his fingertips are quivering a bit and he doesn’t want the porcelain to rattle so loudly.

“I mean it, Victor.” Falcone says, apparently unconvinced, or maybe just looking for additional confirmation. “Do not let anyone or anything lay a hand on her. If they do, I want them to suffer for it.”

 _Suffer_ doesn’t even prick the surface of what they will endure. “They will, sir.” He murmurs, with a respectful bow of the head. “Beyond what they could ever comprehend, should they even attempt to hurt her.”

At last, the mafia don looks pleased and relaxes back in his chair with tea in hand. “Good.” He nods. “Now, go. Do not fail me.”

“Never.” Victor promises, bowing his head once more before standing and making his exit swift and without a further word. Every inch of him is trembling, the excitement almost too much to bear, and he forces his lungs to draw in slow and measured breaths, five long minutes, until he is calm and collected once more. It doesn’t completely cool the blood in his veins, but there’s nothing that will manage that feat, not at the moment. He’s just been granted permission—no, _ordered_ to stay at Iris’ side, hour after hour, day after day, night after night, in her apartment, at her place of work, everywhere and everything in between. More to the point, he’s been commanded, in no uncertain terms, to take those who threaten her and break them apart, piece by piece, in his hands. Take as long as he wants, do whatever he deems appropriate—and oh, does he not just _love_ that turn of phrase?—to them, and for those who actually injure her—which will never happen, but in the event thereof, he can spend days with them. Hours, and days, and weeks…

On that note, he realizes there is a problem. He has no objection whatsoever to taking up residence in the apartment she shares with Gordon, mostly because he knows it would be the ultimate insult to the good detective, but there’s no place for him to work. And he’s sure there will be threats. Nothing Don Falcone said to him is of surprise; he is quite aware of the numerous individuals in Gotham chomping at the bit to get their hands on Iris, to repay every imbecilic insult her father dropped on them, and now that she’s without protection, there really is no one to be trusted. Not even Gordon’s partner. If anything, Victor is quite determined to keep her as far away from Bullock as possible. The overweight oaf has been in bed one too many times with Fish Mooney to be trusted.

He can’t work in the apartment, because, in all likelihood, there simply isn’t room. But there _is_ room to work at his house, in his basement. And as far as Iris’ sleeping arrangements…well, he only has one bed, but he certainly doesn’t need anymore. He’s been ordered to never leave her side, and damned if that doesn’t include while she’s sleeping.

He licks his lips, grinning broadly, and makes his way toward the city. It really must be his birthday.

***

He opts to enter through the front doors and promptly seeks out the desk sergeant. The dark-haired man clearly recognizes him, remembers him with widening eyes and a visible tremor of the hands; he’d ordinarily play with this reaction, just for the sake of amusement, but he has work to do and time is a precious thing. He presents his best manners, inquiring politely as to the medical examiner’s office. He makes a point of saying he’s here to see Iris DeLaine. _See_ her, not collect her.

“This hallway leads to some stairs.” the sergeant says, trying valiantly for bravado. “Take them all the way down to the basement, and then it’s the second door on your left.”

Victor thanks the man, ever polite, ever the gentleman, and takes one final look at the name badge pinned to his shirtfront. He wants to remember the name for future reference, because if this man is so willing to provide such information, without additional inquiry or security measures, to someone he clearly remembers in an unfavorable light, it’s only reasonable to assume he’d provide the same to anyone. _Anyone_. And if anyone finds their way down to the medical examiner’s office, seeking Iris, he wants to know the name of the man whose tongue he’ll be extracting.

The basement is clearly reserved for the morgue and medical examiner’s office. The air reeks of chemicals, cleaning fluid, death and decay, and the stone walls are interrupted with steel doors. For curiosity’s sake, he peeks inside the first door on the left; he sees rows of large steel drawers and an autopsy table. An occupied autopsy table, to be exact.

The second door on the left forgotten and ignored, he slips inside and closes it without noise. The room is cold, brightly lit, and the stench of decay is overpowering from the corpse lying on the table. Iris is alone, her dark mass of hair piled loosely atop her head and fastened with a clip, a white lab coat fitted over her frame, and a notebook in hand. She has a pen set to the page, making observations here and there, and her focus is very much on the poor unfortunate soul, so much that she doesn’t even notice him standing there.

The corpse is that of a woman, probably in her early to mid-twenties; she’s been dead for a while, to say the least, but the physical decay doesn’t hide the extent of her wounds: a throat slit nearly to the point of decapitation, and stab wounds numbering approximately in the twenties, maybe more, mostly concentrated around her lower regions. A clear-cut crime of passion if he ever saw one, and consequently, the overall presentation is a mess. Embarrassingly so, really.

“Oh, dear.” He sighs, shaking his head. “The poor thing.”

Iris pauses, mid-note, and then finishes her writing before nodding and setting the notebook aside with care. “A very kind statement from you, Mr. Zsasz.” She replies smoothly. “Half the department believes this is your handiwork.”

“ _My_ handiwork?” he takes a few steps for closer inspection, to see just how sorry a mess this whole thing is, then huffs out an irritated breath and scowls heavily at nothing in particular. “It seems I need to work on my presentation, if this disaster is what I’m now associated with.”

“Be still, my tiger.” She murmurs, turning and catching his face delicately in one hand. “Ignorance blinds the eye.”

“Ignorance is not an excuse for insult.” He retorts, but his indignation has faded with her touch. “Were _you_ among them?”

She drags him closer, far too close for the sake of propriety and not near enough to satisfy weeks of only seeing her when opportunity allowed it. “I have seen you hunting, my tiger in the night.” Her voice lowers, as do her eyelids. “I know your mark when I see it. I know your elegance, your power, your touch. They are unmistakable to my eyes.”

His fingers trail backwards from her wrist to shoulder. “Are you still talking about my work, Iris?” he inquires, very softly, “Or have we changed topics?”

She smirks, playful and enough to answer his question without words, then releases him and steps back. “Speaking of unaddressed matters, shall we discuss your unannounced and, while not undesired, very unexpected presence?”

He plays along with the transition; they can continue the prior conversation at a different time. “You are an unguarded woman in a viper’s nest.” He says, following her backward step with a forward step. “Surely you knew Don Falcone wouldn’t stand for that. You are far too precious in his eyes.”

“Ah. Then you are not visiting.” She sighs, collecting her notebook once again, professional tone and business-like demeanor. “You are here as a nursemaid.”

“A guardian.” He corrects, taking another step forward. “Watcher, caretaker, and, for those who threaten you, avenger.”

The way his tone drops, accompanied with his hands sliding up her clothed arms and fitting to her shoulders, sends the message quite clearly. “I see.”

“On that note,” he says, coming closer and closer until his chest presses firm to her spine and his lips are at her temple, “you’ll be having some new living arrangements.”

“Will I?”

“You will.” His cheek rests there, breath tickling her hairline. “Too many know where you live, or at least can find out with little effort attached. Don Falcone has charged me with staying at your side, day and night, and keeping you safe. And I follow orders to the letter, Iris. I can’t keep you safe in such an exposed location.”

His tone lowers, again, lips lowering to her ear. “But no one knows where _I_ live.”

Her breath catches a little; she swallows it back, but he’s already heard the slip in her collected demeanor and he intends to play with that until the game grows old. “I would hate to impose, Mr. Zsasz.”

“I insist that you do, Miss DeLaine.” One hand slides down from her arm to settle at her hip, nudging the lab coat aside and fingering her waistband. A button-up blouse and a skirt with heels today; he briefly entertains some delicious images of her perched on a desk edge, teeth lightly nipping her lip with eyes coy and inviting, the hem of her skirt just begging to be touched and negotiated aside to find bare skin beneath.

“Mr. Zsasz,” she says, very quietly, “this is my place of work.”

His eyes slowly descend to the neckline of her blouse; she never showcases too much skin, but today the buttons are open a little more than usual and he can see the slightest glimpse of delicate curves beneath the fabric. “Of that, I am quite aware.” He says, kissing her jaw for a long moment. “And I would never dream of distracting you when there is work to be done.”

He steps back, smirking at the way she visibly has to collect herself before resuming work, and makes himself comfortable against the far wall. This is an excellent vantage point, where he can see her, and he can see both doors on either side of the room. And, thanks to the shelving units, no one can see him.

A middle-aged man with thinning dark hair, glasses, and a sour expression walks in from the south door, about five minutes later, dressed from head to toe in protective covering. “Is she ready yet?” he snaps, without as much as a proper greeting.

“Yes, Dr. Guerra.” Iris answers, tone polite and respectful. _Too_ polite and _too_ respectful, for how she’s being regarded and spoken to by this man. “I just finished my preliminary observations.”

“And you touched _nothing_ on the body.”

“I did not.”

The man—Victor can only assume he’s the medical examiner, because he’s dressed accordingly and has the arrogance of someone in a position who knows, secretly, they shouldn’t have—glowers at her for a rather uncomfortable moment, as though fixing her with a good glare will suddenly make her spout confessions and beg forgiveness. But she remains calm, polite, and holds his gaze in silence. Finally, huffing out a breath, he nods and dismisses her with a shooing gesture, like a troublesome dog. Victor spends a short minute trying to decide what would be most detrimental for this man to lose, before deciding the most obvious solution is the best: both hands, and perhaps his tongue. The hands, because he can’t pretend to maintain his position without them, and his tongue, because no one speaks to Iris like that.

He follows Iris out the door without incident—the good doctor is already bent over the corpse with dissection tools in hand, and Victor had to look away because the man was holding the scalpel _all wrong_ —down the hall and through the next door on the left. She immediately strips out of the coat, drapes it over a chair, and leans heavily against the desk. There are two desks in this room, one along each wall, and he can only assume the one she’s presently resting on is hers. There is no difference between the two: both are highly organized and perfectly maintained, though the other one has a small pile of newspaper sections, each one deliberately folded to showcase the daily crossword puzzle. Interesting.

“I am going to ask you to exercise some restraint, Victor.” Iris says, eyes closed and voice tired. “You have been here twenty minutes and you already have a list. There will be no one left in this precinct by the month’s end, if you do not control yourself.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Victor.”

“Fine.” He forgoes propriety, again, and collects her in his arms before she can see him coming and make further excuses. “If my lady wishes to have me on a leash, so be it.”

She makes a face at him, unamused and unimpressed. “A leash indeed.” She shakes her head. “The day I am responsible for putting my tiger on a leash is the day I slit my own throat. No. This is where I work, Victor, and if you eradicate them all, I have no job.”

“ _Why_ are you even here?” he lifts an eyebrow. “You detest people. You hold no one in this department in any kind of regard. And you can barely glimpse a murder scene on television without becoming violently ill.”

“I was a child then.” She scowls. “I have grown up.”

“Not an answer to my question, Iris.”

Intriguingly, she shifts a little, almost uncomfortably, and her gaze averts from his. “My classes at the university did not allow me to study human anatomy as much as I would have liked. This job…it affords me the opportunity.”

“And why, pray tell,” his eyebrow lifts a little higher, “do you need to work _here_ to study the human body? If you want an anatomy lesson, I’d be more than happy to provide.”

Her eyes return to his, and he reads the look before she even needs to say anything. “Not _that_ kind of lesson,” he corrects, though he’d happily provide those lessons as well, and with great frequency, “the kind you’re seeking here.”

“There would be no difference, Victor.”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” he says, dragging one finger up her jaw in a meaningless path to her hairline, “Here, you’re looking for answers from the _dead_. In my world, you find answers from the _living_. And the living are…” he takes a moment to find the right word, “far more informative.”

Her expression changes again, this time with the intrigue and hungering curiosity he remembers when she was a student. But then she blinks it away and wriggles free of his arms. “I have reports to finish.” She mumbles, too hastily. She looks flustered, and flushed, and he’s quite certain he just touched a nerve. He’d love to touch that nerve again, with more pressure, and see what comes of it.

***

Victor grows less and less impressed with Dr. Guerra over the next two weeks. The man’s arrogance is as overpowering and repellant as a foul odor, and the only thing that reeks more than his ego is his complete lack of professionalism. Iris’ coworker—Edward Nygma, a spindly, dark-haired and bespectacled fellow—catches the brunt of it, yes, but that is more a battle of wits and skill, a furious debate over who is the more qualified person for the job. Victor has no real interest in the matter, but he _does_ have interest in the way Iris suffers the aftermath, berated by the doctor, without mercy, for “taking sides” and “having more interest in being friendly than professional”. Which is absolutely ridiculous, because he’s seen Iris interact with her socially-awkward colleague. They certainly share an intellectual connection, and can engage in pleasant conversation, but it doesn’t change her deep-seated aversion to other people. She appreciates Nygma’s company and enjoys their little chats, but she doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust anyone, save her tiger.

Victor personally appreciates Nygma’s grasp on the concept of discretion, and the way he politely acknowledges a stranger’s presence in the office before going about his way. There have been times, more than once, when their eyes meet, man to man, and he can feel the other man trying to decipher the inner workings of his mind, like trying to piece together an intricate puzzle. Valiant attempts, all in silence, for they say nothing to each other during these moments. He lets Nygma have his fun, but when he grows tired of the mental prodding, he only needs to give him a look and it ends.

Word of his presence in the precinct travels fast in this pit of rumors and gossip; he’ll be surprised if the news doesn’t travel to Arkham, eventually, and into the ears of Officer Gordon. Part of him wishes for it, because nothing could make him happier than watch Gordon come blazing through the doors, just in time for his trigger finger to get itchy.

Don Falcone checks in by phone, about twice a week, sometimes more. His questions are always the same. How is Iris doing? Have there been any incidents? Any persons of concern? And, of course, the usual questions of how she is handling the new living arrangements. Victor is very selective with the provided details on that last question; he assures Don Falcone that Iris is kept comfortable, that she wants for nothing in his humble abode, and that she is always within his sight and always safe. He suspects, more than once, his employer wants to ask something else, but the question is never shared and he never presses for it.

By the start of week three, rumors start drifting throughout the city—and consequently, make their way to the precinct—of strange happenings at Arkham. Patients who already suffer from terrible maladies of the mind reduced to incoherent babblers and hollowed shells in a vegetative state. The rumors say someone is experimenting, and poorly at that, with electrotherapy. The city is abuzz with excitement; he can only imagine the asylum itself is a literal madhouse. Gordon must be having the time of his life.

Victor personally has little interest in the matter; there are more pressing matters at hand, as another rumor catches his attention. A rumor that Gotham has a new visitor, a foreigner from far, far away, who has arrived with armed guards and a taste for blood. Blood of the man who failed him in one too many business deals. It doesn’t take a genius to know who the poor unfortunate soul might be—or, rather, was.

Sure enough, two days after news of this newcomer’s arrival travels city-wide, Victor gets a phone call. He’s inside the office, while Iris is bent over three stacks of back-logged reports, each twelve inches high; her agitation is quite apparent, and he is quietly considering where he might take her tonight that would settle her incensed mood. Perhaps he could play the perfect gentleman and take her out for dinner, someplace quiet and simple, elegant but not extravagant, because she’d never appreciate the gesture in such an atmosphere. Or perhaps they could go for a moonlit stroll through the park, for old time’s sake.

And then his phone rings. Iris pauses in the middle of gathering a few sheets back into respectable order, and then continues. She says nothing, but her body language speaks for her, and loudly at that. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider his ring tone.

Don Falcone doesn’t bother with pleasantries, once the call is answered, but gets right to the point. Has Victor heard the news? Is he aware of this man’s reputation? Does he know the history between the two families? The latter receives a summarized response, before Victor even has a chance to answer the question. He’s grateful for it, actually, because the key point he hears from the impromptu history lesson is the age-old tale of perceived betrayal, stemming back generations, and the vendetta continues on. And of course, the only way to properly end a vendetta is with pointed measures. A bullet works quite nicely.

He assures Don Falcone that Iris is safe, seated right in front of him, and he reaffirms his vow to keep her safe. He’s actually hoping this revenge-seeker tries to make a move, because he has gone far too long without spilling blood, and it’s starting to get to him.

As soon as the call ends, he has the pleasure of seeing Iris abruptly slam her pen to the desk—albeit, not the most dramatic gesture, but she’s far too sophisticated to do something rash, like toss the reports across the room—throw herself upright, and pace to the other side of the room, offering a few choice phrases in Russian that make even _his_ eyebrows lift to hear.

When she stops pacing and stands rigid against the far wall, arms tightly crossed, glowering at nothing in particular, he slowly slips off the chair and closes the distance in a few quick strides. She doesn’t stop him when he sets both hands to her shoulders, but she doesn’t necessarily reciprocate the gesture.

“Iris…”

“What?” her waspish tone isn’t missed, and he quietly sighs. Alright, time for more gentile tactics. The blunt method is sure to only result in an eruption, and he might lose an eye, standing so close to her.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he sighs, wrapping both arms around her and dragging her tight to his chest, “I know that tone. What’s wrong?”

“I do not want to talk about it.” 

“Yes, you do.” He sets his cheek to hers, nuzzling lightly. “Come now, my sweet girl…tell your tiger whose throat he needs to rip out.”

She huffs out a soft breath, but relaxes a bit against him, letting her head drop back against his shoulder and folding both arms atop his. “He is an incompetent, underqualified, pitiful excuse for a human being. As a chief medical examiner, he is an imbecilic, pompous, belligerent Philistine who makes the most ludicrous findings in his examinations, and resorts to crude outbursts, characteristic of a spoiled child, when he is questioned or constructive criticism is attempted. He consistently files complaints against Edward, just because he knows an underling is far more qualified to do the job than himself. And as for me…”

Iris trails off at that point, and he immediately pulls her even closer, kissing here, nuzzling there, and when her hand drifts upward to brush along his cheek, he purrs low in her ear. At the sound, he feels her cheek twitch, and sees the little smile twitching up both corners of her mouth. 

“Dr. Guerra is of the opinion that women should hold certain positions.” She continues, after a minute. “Mainly, in the home or in the bed. And for a woman not yet twenty…well, as he told me yesterday, the medical examiner’s office is a place for _serious and qualified professionals, not little girls playing games_. He has also been kind enough to remind me, multiple times, that he and half the department believe the only reason I hold a position in this office is because James is my legal guardian and I am in bed with the mob.”

He pauses, resting his cheek on her temple. “Those were the words he used?”

“His exact words,” she says, quietly, “were that I am only good enough when my daddy calls in a favor and when my legs are spread for whoever needs a quick fix.”

Victor blinks, brushing his thumb slowly across her clothed waist. “I see.”

Silence, again, and then she sighs and presses more intently against his jaw. “Perhaps you were right, Victor.” She murmurs. “I do not know why I am here. Sometimes, I do not know why I am still in the city. Half the people here believe I am a liability and a curse spawned from two deplorable examples of humanity. The rest want me dead. Even more are kind enough to grace me with their presence and travel long distances to make their point.”

“Then you are aware of our fair city’s newest guest.”

“Victor,” she tilts her head to give him a look, “I am not stupid. I was not stupid as a child, contrary to my father’s belief. I am more than aware of how many people he angered, and how many are out for my blood, just because he is dead and his child is the next best thing to their desired pound of flesh.”

“They won’t touch you.” He jerks, just enough to ensure there is no breath of space between them, and rests his lips at her ear. “And if they try, the last thing they will learn in this life is the last little she-wolf has a tiger in her shadow. One who takes no prisoners, and doesn’t do leniency.”

***

The next three days pass slowly; rumors still circulate, and she knows there is at least some validity to the ones concerning Arkham Asylum, because Detective Bullock leaves without explanation one day and returns two hours later with a very ruffled and highly indignant man she recognizes as the asylum’s director. As Bullock hands the man off to another officer with directions to put him in an interrogation room, he tells her, quietly, that James sends his regards. He also slips her some reports and asks her to take a look at them—“put that brain of yours to work”—and then let him know if there’s anything she notices that might be worthy of declaration.

She takes advantage of the peace and quiet in the office—Edward is running an errand, Dr. Guerra is, thankfully, nowhere to be found, and Victor is outside taking a phone call from Don Falcone, again—and settles at her desk for a review. At first glance, there is nothing noteworthy, save for the curious choice of electrotherapy as a _modus operandi_. It certainly is a signature, in and of itself, and she decides to take a closer look. One does not simply use electricity for convenience; it is far too temperamental and unpredictable a method, especially when knives and guns work just as well and are more effective.

An hour passes, and she delves into the reports, looking and examining and slowly piecing together a most curious theory indeed. It’s only a theory, at best, but it might be enough to help James and Detective Bullock look through this in a different lens. She can only hope. If she is correct—and, frankly, she usually is—then this is a most dangerous individual indeed.

It’s then, when she stands up and prepares to exit the office, that she sees the dark-haired man standing at the door, blocking her entrance, with a gun in hand. She supposes she should be flattered that he came himself, instead of sending an underling to do the job. But with the gun slowly rising and aiming directly for her head, flattery will have to wait. Her eyes inadvertently travel to the right side of his face, where a massive burn mark has turned that part of his features into a poorly-conceived wax figure. It makes her stomach clench and turn, just to look at it. She doesn’t remember that being there, ten years earlier.

“ _Hello, little pup._ ” The man says, voice low and guttural and almost making the Russian dialect incomprehensible. “ _You have grown up._ ”

“ _You are not to be in here._ ” she whispers; her Russian is rusty, but not terribly. “ _You do not belong in this place._ ”

“ _Your spineless wretch of a father did not belong either._ ” He replies, taking a deliberate step forward, gun aimed directly between her eyes. “ _And yet he left his stink all over this city._ ”

“ _He is dead. You will get nothing with my death._ ”

“ _I will feel better._ ” He smirks unpleasantly. “ _That is good enough_.”

“ _You will get nothing._ ” She repeats, willing her voice to remain steady and not betray the violent tremors coursing through her system. “ _I can do nothing for you._ ”

“ _Your death will be plenty._ ” He says, taking another step forward; then, he pauses and takes a more careful look at her. “ _But you are a pretty little pup. And I think you can do plenty for my men, before I put this bullet in your head. Unless, of course, you will not behave._ ”

There is a fleeting moment of suspended silence, when she watches the man’s finger slide down to curl around the trigger, and then an eruption of noise—a burst, nothing more, nothing less—rips through the quiet and shatters the tentative tranquility. And then she watches the man’s face tighten, contort already monstrous features into something truly repellent, before he slowly crumples to the ground, gun falling from limp fingers, the blood slowly and steadily pooling across the hole in his back and leaking onto the floor.

Victor doesn’t even blink, holsters his gun at the belt, and casually steps around the body with one hand already outstretched for her. “I think you’ve had enough excitement for today.”

There are more than a few problems with this. For one, someone will have heard the gun shot. And people will come down here to find a corpse lying in the middle of the floor and the young medical assistant—who they already don’t think should even be there, holding the position she does—conspicuously gone. The same Miss DeLaine who has Don Falcone’s hitman following in her shadow, day and night. She already knows how this is going to look.

“Iris,” Victor says; his tone is too sharp, too cold, and there’s no room for arguments, “we’re leaving.”

***

Victor doesn’t stay long, just brings her inside and tells her in no uncertain terms to not return to the precinct tonight, or tomorrow, until he gives her permission to do so. They argue, briefly, because she isn’t a child and she resents being treated like one. He tells her now isn’t the time for her to be prideful and stubborn.

“It is not about pride and being stubborn!” she snaps. “It is about trust! When will you stop treating me like a child? When will you start seeing me as a woman, other than when I am in your bed?”

He falls silent, longer than usual, which is surprising, and somehow comforting, because it means she actually made him stop and think when he usually has a response on the tip of his tongue. She refuses to show her surprise, or her relief, but instead holds his eye. She wants to be seen as a woman; she will not back down and present as a whimpering little girl.

Then, finally, he exhales slowly, steps forward, and rests his hands on her shoulders. “I always see a woman, Iris.” He says, very quietly, without blinking. “You’ve never been a child. Not even the day I met you. This is not about treating you as a child. This is not about trusting or not trusting you. This,” he steps closer and pulls her forward in the same motion, “is about making a much-needed point.”

She holds his gaze a moment longer, searching it in silence, then sighs with a slow nod. “You do not trust them. Not with me.”

“No, I don’t.” he shakes his head slowly. “But until the day comes when you decide enough is enough and you grow tired of wallowing in a snake pit, it’s a cross I’ll just have to bear. As for right now, I have a message to send. So, humor me, and stay here.”

“I do not wish to be locked up like a caged bird.” She says, softly, but she’s still holding his eyes and she knows he hears the thing unsaid, the memories not shared, the resentment never quite dampened.

“I’ll call the girls.” He says, after a thoughtful pause. “They can keep you safe until I get back. But you need to promise me you won’t go anywhere without them.”

Her expression is definitely speaking for her, because he lifts his eyebrows and gives her _the look_. “Iris.”

“Yes,” she says, slowly, the resentment not quite gone but at least at a more polite level, “I promise. I will stay with your girls, until you return, and I will not go anywhere without them.”

“That’s my girl.” He kisses her forehead, twice, and then rests there for a moment. “I’ll be back soon, just as soon as the message is sent. I promise.”

She says nothing more; he leaves with one last kiss to her forehead and not another word. Outside the window, she can see his silhouette, barely visible against the shadows cast by the afternoon sun along the city streets, and watches until he fades into the distance. He’ll be back soon. He’ll be back. 

_Just as soon as the message is sent._


End file.
